Lessons Learned
by caeli1701
Summary: [WIP] One night, Jimmy drinks a cup of enchanted tea and transforms into a cat. Trapped in this new body he is forced to look at himself (and Thomas) honestly. Meanwhile everyone at Downton must deal with Jimmy's apparent disappearance, including Thomas, who takes the loss harder than the rest.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **This story was inspired by a post on tumblr made by the lovely Cherry Unicorn. Thanks for the prompt!

**Warnings: **Internalized homophobia. Rating may change in future chapters.

* * *

Jimmy came in late, dripping rainwater and rubbing his eyes.

He'd been out to the flicks tonight to see whatever was playing—it had been something about a princess—but he'd nodded off accidentally and missed most of the film. He wouldn't have fallen asleep at all, of course, if only he'd had someone to go _with_ him, but after Alfred and Ivy had left Downton (and their replacements were insufferable ninnies) Jimmy had only Daisy and Mr. Barrow left to ask.

First Jimmy tried to invite Daisy—he rather liked her, though she had never been impressed by _him_— but she'd given him such a suspicious look that he'd thought better of it, and left her alone.

And Mr. Barrow… Jimmy couldn't ask him. Though they were the best of friends, inviting Thomas to the flicks was no longer possible. The one time they'd gone to the cinema together Jimmy had been hyper-aware of Thomas next to him in the dark, every breath he took and every movement he made, and the way he smelled…Jimmy hadn't been able to concentrate on the film at all, his mind had been so filled by perverse thoughts. He still couldn't remember what film they'd even _seen._

_It's only because Thomas is that sort_, Jimmy thought bitterly, _that he was putting ideas like_that_into my head_—_I'd never have them otherwise_.

Try as he might and though years had passed, Jimmy had never been able to forget that Thomas had once thought himself in love with Jimmy.

Men couldn't truly love other men, of course, and Jimmy knew that. Thomas was a wonderful man but he was also a deviant, and deviants confused their misplaced desires for love. Out of this confusion and O'Brien's manipulation, Thomas had acted foolishly, and Jimmy had been vicious in return—but all that was long over with. Jimmy often reminded himself that Thomas no longer desired him, because misplaced lust notwithstanding, Jimmy must have surely burned away all want Thomas felt for him in that time before their friendship, when Jimmy had been so cruel and had tried to ruin him.

What was between them now was pure friendship: the right sort of affection men could have for each other.

On that long-ago evening when they had begun it, Thomas had all but admitted he cared for Jimmy in a way deeper than the physical, and had sacrificed himself for Jimmy to make amends. Even if Thomas still wanted other men, Jimmy was certain he no longer wanted _him_.

Thinking about such things disturbed Jimmy and made him feel uneasy, so he always tried to put them from his mind. Ever since his pursuit of Ivy had failed, however, these thoughts and others like them had been plaguing him more often than they had before. Their repetitive and pointless nature irritated him; he was even beginning to dread his half-days instead of anticipate them. At least when he was working he had something else to concentrate on. He'd never thought he'd want to work_more_ instead of less, but he did, and he hated it.

If he could only forget about the past and move on the way Thomas had, he would have his peace of mind back. As things stood now he couldn't even go to the flicks with his best mate without being tormented by unwanted thoughts.

Shivering in his damp clothes and feeling very sorry for himself, Jimmy wandered into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. He needed something to warm him up before bed; he felt chilled down to his bones.

He reached for the kettle, and paused; there was already a steaming cup of tea on the table.

"Someone else down here?" he called. He'd thought for sure everyone had gone to bed by now. He listened for a few moments, but heard nothing, and no one came into the room.

_Strange,_ he thought.

He turned back to the kettle, but suddenly it seemed a great chore to make his own tea when there was an untouched cup not three feet away. Jimmy studied it. He didn't recognize the china; it looked very fine, with little blue and yellow flowers painted on. The steam was warm on his face and smelled delicious; there was even a slice of lemon in it, floating down beneath the dark amber liquid.

That decided it. He was cold from the autumn rain, lonely, and in a foul mood; if no one was here to claim their fancy tea than it was his now, and their fault for leaving it unattended.

Jimmy sat down and took a cautious sip, closing his eyes to savor it…but as soon as the taste registered on his tongue he nearly spat it out all over the table. With difficulty he managed to swallow before he let out a nasty curse. The tea tasted _horrible_—like fish and some sort of pungent garden weed, _nothing_ like the way it smelled at all. Disgusted, Jimmy pushed the cup away, and as he did a slip of paper fluttered out from under the saucer. Cramped, tiny writing was scrawled across it. Jimmy had to squint to read the words.

_Drink this and you'll receive treasure beyond measure._

Jimmy scowled. What nonsense. Someone was probably playing a joke…one of the hall boys, no doubt; they'd always been jealous of him. He wondered what disgusting things they'd put in the tea to make it taste so bad. If it made him ill he'd get them all _sacked_, he really would.

"Alright, I drank your bloody awful tea," Jimmy said loudly. "You can come out now, joke's been _very_ funny, you're very clever…"

But no one answered, or came out to laugh at him. He considered searching for the culprit, but even that seemed like too much effort at so late an hour. Tomorrow he'd find out who'd done it and get his revenge—Mr. Barrow could help him plot—but tonight all he wanted to do was sleep, and forget this dismal day.

Jimmy left the tea, muttering angrily to himself, and trudged up to the men's quarters. He couldn't wait to clean his teeth of the foul taste and fall into bed.

His footsteps slowed as he passed Mr. Barrow's door. Sometimes he did that without meaning to. There was always a part of him that kept telling him to go in to Thomas—_and do what, exactly?_—but he always forced himself to keep walking, to smother the little voice into silence.

Tonight the temptation was very strong, probably because he was so tired and felt so out of sorts, but with a grimace Jimmy turned away and went into his own room. He'd tell Mr. Barrow about the tea and the note in the morning.

After he washed up and got the fish-and-sour-weed taste out of his mouth, Jimmy curled up in his cold bed and fell into a fitful sleep.

* * *

Something was wrong.

Jimmy knew it before he even opened his eyes, all his senses prickling. He could hear so many things all at once—birds singing and animals rustling outside, the hall boys complaining in the washroom, people bustling around and making a racket downstairs, raised voices coming from the kitchen…

Why was everything so bloody _loud _this morning?Had he slept with his window _and _his door open?

Jimmy opened his eyes and sat up, annoyed at the day already.

The room looked… _strange_. Everything was faded, dull, and slightly blurry at a distance— the colors discernible but washed out to an almost-gray. Everything looked _much _bigger, too, like the proportions had been resized to fit a giant man.

What in the bloody hell was wrong with his eyes?

Bewildered, Jimmy blinked hard and shook his head, but his vision didn't clear. He tried to rub his eyes—but his hands and arms wouldn't obey him. Instead two long furry limbs rose up in front of his face, like the lion's he'd once seen at a traveling circus.

Jimmy cried out—or he tried to, but all that came out of him was a shrill yowl that scorched the back of his throat. It sounded _nothing_ like his voice.

Terrified, he looked around for the lion, but it was nowhere in sight. Looking down at himself, he saw… not his body. He saw the lion's body—a _tiny _lion's body.

A… cat's body.

Mind blanking with shock, Jimmy fell out of the giant bed and dashed across the cavernous room on all fours, the movement effortless and graceful even as his heart tried to beat itself out of his chest. Without knowing how he did it he _leaped_ up to his bureau that was now three times his height, and then he was _standing on the bureau_ in front of his mirrors, which were now _taller than he was_.

In the mirror he didn't see himself: instead, there was a pale-colored cat with fluffy fur and long whiskers staring back at him. Jimmy reached out to touch the glass—but somehow his hand was a paw, attached to furry limb that was attached to his shoulder, and when his hand—_his_ _paw_—met the matching paw on the mirror's surface Jimmy fainted dead away.

_Of course I'm not a cat_, he thought fuzzily as shadows pulled him down._This is just a dream… a horrible,_very silly_, dream._

_Thomas will laugh when I tell him about it._

* * *

When Thomas arrived downstairs that morning, he found Mrs. Patmore in a state. She was huffing and puffing about ruined meal schedules and wasted food, her red face redder than ever in her fury. She seemed to be throwing away half of the contents of the pantry, while Daisy and the new kitchen maid helped her haul bags and sweep up piles of spilled sugar. Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes presided over the chaos, identical unhappy expressions on their faces.

"It's _mice_," Carson informed him darkly. He said _mice_ like one might say _'the black death._'

Thomas curled his lip in distaste, though a part of him couldn't help but feel a little amused. Anything that broke routine around here was a pleasure as far as he was concerned.

Mrs. Hughes sighed. "This is the first time in fifteen years we've had rodents in our kitchen…"

"It isn't mice, it's _rats_ is what it is!" Mrs. Patmore interjected in a very shrill tone. She seemed to be taking the invasion of the pantry as a personal violation. "They've ruined fifteen pounds of sugar, five pounds of brown sugar, three loaves of bread _and_ the goat cheese—who knows what else I'll find they've destroyed!"

"It'll be alright, Mrs. Patmore," Daisy said, attempting to placate her. "It's probably only mice and not rats. They're easy enough to get rid of and I'm sure—"

"Oh, well look who's an expert all of the sudden!"

Daisy scowled and gave a long-suffering retort; Thomas winced as Mrs. Patmore boomed something back at her. He decided it was too early in the day to listen to their bickering, and left the room to find a bit of quiet and a cigarette. He smirked, thinking of how he'd describe the scene to Jimmy later.

The rest of his morning followed its usual pattern—that is, until he was spreading jam on his toast at breakfast and realized Jimmy wasn't at the table with everyone else. Normally Jimmy was sitting across from him and on his second cup of tea by now. Thomas liked seeing him in the mornings— sometimes he was bright and fresh-faced, while others he was sour and bleary-eyed. Thomas enjoyed both incarnations.

Mr. Carson noticed Jimmy's absence just a beat behind Thomas. "…Where is James?" he asked the room.

Everyone looked up from their plates and glanced around, clueless.

"Perhaps he overslept, sir," Mr. Molesley offered. "It was his half-day yesterday…"

Thomas cut a glance at the older man. He was obviously trying to get Jimmy into trouble so _he_ could be first footman, probably only to impress Baxter. _Nice try_, Thomas thought. _But you'll pay for that one later._

Clearing his throat, Thomas lied smoothly, "I'm afraid Jimmy wasn't feeling well last night, Mr. Carson. I think he may be ill. Perhaps someone should go and look in on him, see if we need to call a doctor."

Mr. Carson sighed, his irritation cooling slightly. "Very well, Thomas. You go and see what is keeping him. If he is very ill…"

Thomas nodded and left the table, glad Mr. Carson hadn't asked anyone else. Jimmy likely _was_ sleeping off a night of drinking and card-playing, just as Mr. Helpful had insinuated back there, but Thomas would cover for him and make sure he didn't do it again. Jimmy had better be grateful, too. Thomas was missing breakfast for him.

It was strange, though, he mused as he made his way up the stairs. Jimmy certainly wasn't the best footman Downton had ever seen but he'd never simply neglected to come to work before. Jimmy being this flippant about his job was _stupid_, really, and if he got himself sacked…

Thomas tightened his jaw and shoved the thought away.

When he reached Jimmy's door he knocked loudly on the painted wood, determined to scold him properly no matter how his heart weakened at the sight of him.

No response.

Sighing, Thomas knocked harder.

"Jimmy."

There was utter silence behind the door. Frowning, Thomas knocked a third time, even louder. "Jimmy? Open the door, please."

Again, he couldn't hear anything. Worried now, Thomas announced he was coming in. Perhaps his lie had been the truth after all and Jimmy was ill—autumn was well underway and with the falling temperatures came sicknesses.

Cautiously he opened the door a crack. Jimmy wasn't in his bed or his chair. Thomas opened the door wider and took a step inside, peeking around the wall to see the whole room.

That's when he saw it: a _cat_, lying on Jimmy's bureau. It mewled piteously at him without lifting its head, as if it were ill or simply too lazy to move. Astonished, Thomas stared at it. What was it doing in _Jimmy's_ room? Servants weren't allowed pets.

The cat mewled again, batting a paw in Thomas's direction. It was rather small, with long fur the color of sand, a slightly scrunched-in face, and dark blue eyes. It looked very well-groomed, as if it belonged to a wealthy lord or lady—but there was no collar that he could see.

…Perhaps it belonged to Lady Rose? She might have gotten a new companion and neglected to mention it to the Crawleys, and by extension the servants. It seemed the sort of thing she might do. The cat could have wandered into Jimmy's room by mistake, and gotten shut-in somehow.

But where was Jimmy?

Turning to leave, Thomas decided to check the washroom for Jimmy and come back later to deal with the cat, but as soon as he turned his back the cat yowled as if terrified. Thomas stopped and looked back at it, wondering what was wrong with it.

As soon as the thought crossed his mind the cat stood up suddenly and leaped from the bureau, straight into Thomas's arms. He caught the cat automatically, stumbling backwards in surprise. As quick as anything the furry beast crawled up his chest, dug its claws into his livery, and tucked its head under his chin where it began to mewl loudly and pathetically, like some kind of crying infant.

"Ugh—get off!" Thomas reached up and tried to pry the cat off him, but it would not be moved. Its claws were stuck in him firmly, probably ruining his uniform, and when he tried to pull it away its cries became angry and desperate.

Annoyed and determined not to pity it, Thomas let go to see if it would drop to the floor and run off. It didn't, it just clung to him even harder, mewling sadly.

"Bugger…" Thomas muttered.

The cat trembled against him—it was obviously terrified. Unwillingly his heart softened towards it, and he sighed in resignation. He'd always been fond of cats; growing up, his father had kept one in the shop to keep mice away, and he'd spent hours earning its trust. But this fluffy thing was nothing like the sleek, wary animal he'd made friends with as a boy.

This cat looked like a vanilla desert come to life.

Still, in many ways Thomas preferred animals to people, and he did not want it to suffer needlessly. Best take it upstairs and see which Crawley it belonged to, he decided.

But first he had to find Jimmy. Carrying the cat with him, Thomas headed for the washroom, stroking the cat's fur despite himself. Jimmy had to be in there, and maybe he knew how the cat had gotten into his room, too.

But Jimmy wasn't there either.

Nerves tightened his belly as he tried to think of where else Jimmy might have gone. Hopefully Thomas had just missed him exciting the washroom, and even now Jimmy was apologizing profusely to Mr. Carson downstairs.

Just then a hall boy came around the corner. Ted, or Ned, or something. "Have you seen Mr. Kent?" Thomas asked.

The boy shook his head, staring in bewilderment at the cat in his arms. "Not seen him since yesterday afternoon, sir."

"Tell me right away if you see him."

"Yes, Mr. Barrow," the boy said, still staring. "But sir, why do you have…?"

Thomas waved a dismissive hand at the question and carried the cat downstairs. It continued to cling to him desperately, but at least the steady strokes he gave it had soothed away most of its trembling.

The Crawleys should be going into breakfast any minute now, he knew, so he made his way into the great hall, hoping to catch them on their way. He was in luck— Lady Rose, the Crawley sisters, and Tom Branson were all there, chatting quietly as they trickled towards the breakfast room.

Lady Rose was the first to spot Thomas with the cat. Her face lit up with surprise and delight, and she hurried over to him like an excited little girl.

"Oh, how sweet!" she exclaimed. "May I stroke her?"

Before Thomas could say a word the cat turned its head and hissed at Lady Rose, its fur bristling with outrage.

"Wherever did you find a cat, Barrow?" Lady Mary asked, drawing nearer to get a closer look.

Lady Rose was putting out her hand hopefully, but immediately the cat spat at her and swiped a paw in warning. She drew her hand back hastily.

"I found it wandering the men's quarters, milady," Thomas lied. For the safety of Lady Rose he neatly stepped back from her.

"It's a lovely color," Lady Edith observed.

Again Thomas tried to pry the cat loose, but it held fast and mewled in distress, so he stopped and stroked its back by way of an apology. Its fur was very soft, and something about the way it smelled was distinctly uncat-like, Thomas noticed.

"Does it belong to anyone at Downton?" he asked.

"No, I don't think so," Lady Mary said. "I'm afraid Papa doesn't care much for cats."

"Perhaps it belongs to someone in the village?" Branson suggested. "It might have gotten lost in the rain yesterday and wandered into Downton for cover. I could ask around, find out who it belongs to."

"Good idea, Tom," Lady Mary said.

"But what should we do with it in the meantime?" Lady Edith asked. "I'm sure Barrow here has better things to do with his time than watch over a stray cat."

"Well _I_ would take her," Lady Rose said, sighing. "But I don't think she cares much for me at all."

Lady Mary squinted at the cat. "Its attitude is very male if you ask me," she said archly. "I suppose I could care for it for a while, or ask Mama if she would like to."

Feeling somehow reluctant, Thomas again tried to pull the cat off. It hissed angrily, but this time he ignored the sounds of tearing fabric and animal distress and kept pulling until the cat came free. As quickly as he could he pushed the bristling feline into Lady Mary's arms. As soon as she closed her hands around it the cat yowled furiously and shot back over to Thomas, where it crawled up his chest again and around to the back of his shoulders. It settled there like an angry mink wrap, back arched and claws digging in so hard Thomas felt little stings of pain. It hissed a warning at the gathered Crawleys.

Mr. Branson laughed. "It only seems to care for Mr. Barrow," he said.

The others chuckled, and Thomas couldn't help but feel a little smug that the cat preferred him over the upstairs lot. Perhaps it wasn't as silly as it looked if it had such discerning taste.

But what about Jimmy? Thomas needed to find him before he got into any more trouble, not spend his time babysitting a cat and chatting with the Crawleys about it. It was time he cut this conversation short, and the only way to do that was to volunteer to care for the cat himself.

"I can watch over him, milady," he said with his most deferential smile. "It's no trouble at all."

He could always change his mind later, he supposed, if the cat proved itself a nuisance.

"Are you certain, Barrow? We don't want to overburden you," Lady Mary asked.

Thomas wanted to sneer at that—overburden him indeed, obviously she meant 'interfere with your work'—but he only smiled some more and assured her it wouldn't bother him a bit.

"Besides," he added. "I'm sorry to say that Mrs. Patmore has found evidence of mice in the kitchens this morning; we may need this fellow's help to hunt them down. Perhaps it's perfect timing."

* * *

Jimmy didn't know what was happening. At first he'd been sure he was dreaming—then, after he'd blacked out in front of the mirror, he'd been certain he was very ill and hallucinating in some sort of fevered state.

Now he knew he was awake.

He'd had vivid dreams before, and he'd hallucinated in fever before, but this was nothing like those experiences at all. Everything was too strange_, _yet too clear all at once. But still, it couldn't _be_ real, could it? Perhaps he'd gone completely mad, and in reality was gibbering to himself in some forgotten corner of a lunatic asylum.

The thought of madness—of being lost in his own mind— was even more terrifying than anything else he could think of, so he refused to entertain the thought further. Instead he chose to believe, for the moment, that everything was as it appeared to be: he, Jimmy Kent, had been transformed into a cat.

If he could have laughed, he would have. If he could have run shrieking out of his own skin, he would have. As it was he'd been in a state of shock since he'd woken up on the bureau to find it hadn't been a dream at all.

But how had this happened?

Was it that horrible cup of tea from last night, the one with the note? It must have been. Like Alice in _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland,_ he'd been dumb enough to drink from the mystery bottle marked "DRINK ME," and now he was paying the price.

But poisoned tea could not turn a human into an animal. Medicine was making advances all the time, but he was sure it couldn't do _that_—so, was it… magic? It had to be, but Jimmy wasn't even sure he believed in religion, let alone _magic_. He believed in himself first, and what he could see with his own eyes—and this… _this _was impossible.

_Unless magic _is _real_… _all those stories Mother told you, the ones about the fairies and hobs and spirits… maybe they're true. _

The concept wasn't quite as terrifying as madness, but it came very close. Jimmy felt his entire sense of the world threaten to shatter beneath his feet.

It was lucky, then, that he'd run out of time to contemplate it further.

Thomas had found him— Jimmy had been so relieved it had been Thomas and not someone else— and he'd carried him from his bedroom into the great hall. Then suddenly there were so many people, so big and _loud_, and Lady Rose tried to pet him and called him a _she_. Jimmy was overwhelmed, terrified, and furious. He felt even worse when Thomas immediately tried to foist him off on the Crawleys.

It was too much.

Jimmy, cat or not, did _not_ want to be taken away with one of that lot. Only with Thomas did he feel a little safer. If Thomas tried to dump him off on one of the Crawleys again Jimmy would make him pay, he really would. With this thought in mind, Jimmy dug his claws even deeper into Thomas's livery. He'd never pull him off now.

"It only seems to care for Mr. Barrow," Mr. Branson said, amused.

"I can watch over him, milady," Thomas said to Lady Mary, speaking in that silky tone he only used with the Crawleys. "It's no trouble at all."

Relief flooded Jimmy at his words, making him lightheaded. Thomas wasn't abandoning him in his hour of need! Of course he wouldn't, he was Jimmy's very dearest friend.

"Are you certain, Barrow?" Lady Mary asked. "We don't want to overburden you."

"I will be alright," Thomas said. "Besides, I'm sorry to say that Mrs. Patmore has found evidence of mice in the kitchens this morning; we may need this fellow's help to hunt them down. Perhaps it's perfect timing."

Jimmy didn't hear much of the following conversation. Catch mice? _Him?_ Jimmy was not an animal, he was a _man_! He was first bloody footman! Any minute now this—this _spell_, or curse, or whatever it was, was sure to wear off and he'd be back to normal; he was _not _going to catch those disease-ridden little beasts in the meantime. The very thought was repulsive. Jimmy felt horror pile onto horror until he began to feel he would be sick.

"You'll have to make yourself useful," Thomas said lightly. Jimmy jolted and realized they were alone again, Thomas carrying him back downstairs. "Or Mr. Carson will throw you outside and no mistake."

Jimmy tried to say, "_No he bloody well won't!"_ but all that came out was an angry meow. The sound humiliated him, so he clamped his jaw shut immediately.

Thomas stopped walking and reached up, gently pulling Jimmy from his shoulders and back into his arms. "Don't worry, I'm sure _Mr._ Branson will find out who you really belong to. You'll be home soon."

Jimmy hid his face in the crook of Thomas's elbow. If someone from the village lied and said they were missing a cat, Mr. Branson and the rest of them could cage Jimmy up and give him to a stranger.

Thomas scratched Jimmy's head, then stroked his back as he started walking again. The touches felt nice, like the way getting his hair washed and combed had felt when he was a small child. They soothed Jimmy's misery a little—though it was strange to imagine Thomas doing this to him when he was a man. He firmly decided not to think like that.

Jimmy burrowed his face deeper into Thomas's livery, squeezing his eyes shut. A large part of him still hoped this was all a dream, one that he would soon awake from. He _hated_ this, hated being helpless and silenced and _small_. Everything was different, too—even his senses. His vision was reduced and washed out while his hearing and sense of smell were so acute they were almost overwhelming. He could hear so much, smell so many new scents that he couldn't identify. Thomas, for instance, smelled the same: like wintery aftershave and cigarettes, only now Jimmy could smell so much more on top of that. There was the scent of his pomade, the mild soap he used to wash beneath the cotton scent of this uniform, even the mint he cleaned his teeth with mixed with the dry smell of the tea he'd drank. There was also the smell of his skin, something raw that he'd never quite caught before. This scent alone had layers to it, as if Jimmy were getting pages from a book of which he could not read the language.

_Looking_ at Thomas now was also different. Firstly he seemed so much bigger than Jimmy, but more than that, all his colors were faded. The blue-gray of his eyes, the red of his mouth, the cream of his skin—all were washed out. It was almost like watching Thomas on a film screen. The color red, especially, seemed entirely lost to Jimmy now.

As for his cat's body… it felt strange, like he was wearing a fur coat while naked at the same time. There was a layer of fur between him and the world, but each hair and whisker was sensitive in a way his human hair had never been. He hated that, too—it made him feel itchy.

Much too quickly for Jimmy's liking, they reached Carson's office door. Thomas knocked and went inside, not giving Jimmy a chance to take a breath.

Mr. Carson was predictably flabbergasted when he saw Jimmy. "_Thomas_, what is that?"

"It's a cat," Thomas said.

"I know it's a _cat,_" Carson growled. "What is it doing here?"

"I found it in the men's quarters," Thomas said. "I spoke to Lady Mary and it doesn't belong to anyone in the house. I suppose it wandered into Downton last night to escape the rain."

"Well, go on and send it outside, then. It's probably riddled with disease."

Jimmy tightened his claws into Thomas's arm despite himself; Thomas scratched between his ears in response.

"I can't throw it out, sir. Lady Mary asked me to look after it until they find out who it belongs to, and perhaps see in the meantime if it's a mouser."

Carson grimaced at the mention of the mice infestation. Jimmy felt the same way, only _Carson_ wasn't the one being told to catch the little beasts with his _mouth_.

"Very well, Thomas." He sighed and waved his hands, like he was shooing the two of them out the door. "Just, just keep it out of the way and do _not _let it cause any trouble. I'll speak to Mrs. Patmore about letting it into the kitchen."

"Yes, sir," Thomas cleared his throat, pausing awkwardly. "…Has Jimmy been downstairs, yet?"

Carson frowned. "I thought _you_ were looking in on him."

Jimmy felt Thomas's arm harden with tension beneath him. "He, ah, wasn't in his room. Or the washroom."

Carson rubbed at his temple. "Find him, and when you do, tell him he'd better have a good explanation for his absence or he will no longer have a place at Downton."

Jimmy felt like screaming. He couldn't lose his job, he just couldn't! He'd have to leave Downton… oh, _why_ had this happened to him?

Thomas nodded and turned on his heel to leave, but Carson stopped him. "And Thomas, before you do anything else you _must_ change your uniform. Your— _guest_ has ruined it."

Thomas looked down at himself. Jimmy saw what Carson meant immediately: there was light-colored fur dusting the black fabric, and little holes and scratches marring the jacket and shirt—even the tie was crooked. Thomas's full mouth twisted with displeasure—Jimmy knew how he prided himself on his appearance— and Jimmy tensed unhappily. He hadn't meant to muss up Thomas's uniform! He'd been _cursed_, it wasn't his fault!

But, what if Thomas decided not to care for him now…? Jimmy needed to keep Thomas's affection in this new form or he might lose his only ally.

Thomas nodded at Carson again and left the office. As he walked Jimmy's mind whirled. What did people like about cats? He'd never had much experience with them. The only cat he'd known had belonged to Lady Anstruther, but he'd never had many dealings with it. Her cat had been called Sir Walter, and from what Jimmy remembered he'd mostly dozed on a silk cushion or sat on Lady Anstruther's lap to be stroked. Thomas seemed to like stroking him—was that all there was to it? Being soft, and sweet, and purring? But Jimmy didn't know how to purr.

_He didn't know how to be a bloody cat because he wasn't one!_

Jimmy prayed he would return to himself—any minute now. Or perhaps he had only to go back to sleep, since this transformation had happened overnight.

"You're a bloody nuisance, you are," Thomas sighed, confirming Jimmy's fears. His heart sank in dismay. Thomas had _never_ said anything so dismissive to him when he'd been a man. Couldn't he recognize him on some level, sense that he was important to him? They'd been such good friends… maybe all Jimmy had to do was try to communicate somehow.

Thomas opened his door and closed it behind them. He deposited Jimmy unceremoniously onto the desk chair, the one Jimmy used when they played cards at night. Jimmy crouched down low, uneasy being separated from Thomas's body heat, and looked up at his friend. He tried to project his words with his eyes.

_It's me, it's Jimmy! Please Thomas, help me!_

But Thomas only looked at him dispassionately, in a way he never had when Jimmy had been himself. He'd always looked at Jimmy so warmly before, Jimmy hadn't even noticed it until it was gone.

Thomas pulled his tie loose and began to unbutton his collar, and Jimmy watched him blankly until he recalled that Thomas was supposed to be changing his uniform. Face prickling, Jimmy stared as Thomas removed the ruined jacket, then pulled down his braces and let them hang about his waist. He pulled off his collar next, then his fingers went to his shirt buttons and began to undo them. Jimmy looked away as soon as his bare chest was exposed, fixing his eyes on Thomas's bedside table instead. He felt hot and uncomfortable, like he was guilty of something.

Jimmy listened as Thomas washed his hands in his water basin. Suddenly curious about what Thomas's hand looked like without the glove, he peeked.

Thomas, shirtless, was an arresting sight, but Jimmy forced his eyes down to his hands and saw the scarred one bared for the first time. It looked…_bad_, like it had been very painful to receive. Jimmy wondered how exactly Thomas had gotten the wound; he wished he'd had the courage to ask when he'd still had a voice.

"I'll be back with water and food in a bit," Thomas said, almost as if he were talking to himself. He strode over to his wardrobe and opened it, finding his second uniform with ease. Jimmy watched him cover his smooth back with a clean undershirt, then follow it with the rest of his clothes. His trousers he didn't change; they must have escaped Jimmy's fur unscathed. Finally Thomas was fully dressed again, and Jimmy watched him slip on a spare glove as well, one that was black instead of cream.

Thomas gave himself a once-over in his wardrobe mirror, carefully adjusting his tie. He looked striking even blurry with his colors washed out. Jimmy liked looking at him—always had, but now it was doubly fascinating because Thomas wasn't putting on any sort of mask. He didn't know Jimmy could see him, didn't know Jimmy could read his naked emotions flickering over his features. Right now Thomas looked slightly unnerved, as if something were bothering him. Normally that sort of expression would have been tucked away out of sight, Jimmy was sure of it.

Belatedly Thomas's words—and their implications—registered.

Thomas was going to shut him up in here? Come back _later_ with food and water? What was he to do in the meantime? What if he had to relieve himself? What if whatever creature had cast this spell on him came back, and transformed him into something even worse than a cat? He might wake up next as a fly, or a worm! He might be killed! Terror shook him down to the bone, and he began to tremble all over again.

Desperately he tried to say, "_Thomas_!" but all that emerged was another humiliating meow.

"Sorry, kitty," Thomas said, turning to face him. "I've got to find Jimmy and then I'll come back for you."

_But I'm right here!_ Jimmy wanted to shout. _Please don't leave me alone like this!_

But Thomas couldn't hear him. Instead he made for the door and Jimmy couldn't help but panic, leaping down from the chair and dashing across the floor after him.

"Ah, no, get back—"

Jimmy tried to dart past Thomas's ankles but Thomas was too quick for that; gently he slid Jimmy back into the room with his foot and shut the door in his face.

_No! _Jimmy scratched at the door with his claws, knowing as he did it that it was a futile effort.

He listened to Thomas's footsteps recede down the hall, then stop.

"Jimmy? Are you in there?"

Thomas was knocking at Jimmy's bedroom door, looking for him. He heard Thomas open the door, still calling his name. A few moments ticked by while Thomas presumably looked inside, then Jimmy heard him swear and walk out again, this time heading for the stairs. Jimmy listened to his footsteps until they faded into silence.

He was all alone.

He wanted to cry, to _scream_— but in this body he couldn't do either.


	2. Chapter 2

Jimmy hid under the bed, every unfamiliar noise and scent in the house chilling his blood.

He knew the creature could come back for him at any moment—the spirit, or fairy, or whatever force which had magicked him into a cat's body—but if it were watching him, it never showed itself nor gave any signs of its presence. Jimmy would almost rather have it appear and attack him then to lie in wait for it any longer. Only his mother's death, and the war, had produced more dread than this.

Because even if the supernatural being never returned, never came back to harm him further… he could still be stuck like this for the rest of his life.

_I'll never play piano again_. _I'll never travel the world or go to the flicks, or speak or laugh or smoke or dance. I'll never do anything I was meant to do, and no one will know where I've gone._

_I'll have disappeared._

Eventually these thoughts had Jimmy's stomach rolling. Trembling miserably, he crawled out from under Thomas's bed and looked around for a bin to be sick in. Right at the last possible moment he remembered the one in the corner, and made for it as quick as he could before his stomach emptied itself.

Retching was retching, no matter what kind of body you were in, Jimmy discovered.

When he was finished he felt hollow and weak, inside and out, as if his emotions had left his body just as surely as last night's dinner had. Wearily he turned back to the chilly darkness under the bed, but found he could not make himself return to it. If the faerie queen or the devil himself were looking for him, he didn't suppose hiding under the bed would make any difference— he might as well be _comfortable_ while he awaited his doom.

He climbed onto the bed despite his weak and shaking limbs. The Thomas-scent that permeated the room was stronger here, almost covering up the smell of his sick. It was so comforting that he couldn't help following the scent up to the pillow, where it was stronger than anywhere else. Without thinking about why he burrowed under the coverlet and curled up so he could rest his head on the corner of the pillow.

_Perhaps if I sleep I will return to normal,_ Jimmy thought again, desperately. It was the only hope he had left to cling to.

* * *

It was obvious as lunchtime approached that Jimmy wasn't at Downton at all. Thomas wanted to throttle him.

Last night he must have gotten so sloshed at the pub that he'd lost all good sense. Perhaps he'd even gotten into trouble, too, and was now sitting in a cell somewhere with an angry bobby on his case. Thomas only prayed Jimmy hadn't been hurt in any way, or been accosted by brutes… of course, running into that sort of trouble wasn't likely in the _village_, of all places, but then again, Jimmy was exactly the kind of man who had the peculiar talent of finding trouble where none had previously existed.

Worry tightened Thomas's stomach for several dark minutes before logic reasserted itself.

_It's much more likely Jimmy met a girl he fancied last night,_ he told himself firmly. _He's perfectly safe physically— except for the very real danger of unemployment… even now he's probably asleep, lying naked in some woman's bed._

Thomas felt pain at the thought, clean and neat as a knife to the ribs. He wished for Jimmy's happiness first and foremost, he truly did—even if that happiness wasn't with _him_— but he still couldn't help but feel ill at the idea of him with someone else. It was ridiculous, of course— he knew he had no right. And yet, all the logic in the world had never been able to stop him from feeling anything when it came to Jimmy Kent.

…But that was neither here nor there.

With an effort he pushed those thoughts down and locked them up tight. He had _real_ work to be getting on with, he didn't have time to be reflecting on his entire life's trials and tribulations, or the pathetic love still burning away in his heart. Jimmy was almost certainly losing his job now whatever the reason, and it were his own bloody _stupid _fault. Thomas deliberately focused on his anger, his frustration with Jimmy's irresponsibility, and let it carry him away from fear.

* * *

When the clock chimed the hour he looked up from his ledger and realized he had no idea if he'd done anything correctly since breakfast. He'd been working blindly all morning while he churned over Jimmy's absence—churned over it, fumed over it, _worried _over it… while simultaneously working out ways to help Jimmy keep his position at Downton.

Thomas was beginning to get a stress headache; it felt like a week had passed in the space of three hours. He was _famished,_too_,_and he badly needed a smoke—

_Damn, the cat!_

He'd forgotten all about the stray in his room, he'd been so focused on Jimmy. He'd meant to return straight away, give it some water at the very least. Now the poor thing was likely suffering—and pissing on the floors, no doubt. Thomas sighed unhappily and stood up, making a quick trip to the kitchen first.

* * *

When he opened his door he didn't see the cat anywhere—until a lump under his blanket quivered and the cat's head emerged. It looked at him and gave a very plaintive, sorrowful meow.

"Bit dramatic, aren't you…" Thomas muttered. His sheets and pillow were likely soiled with cat hair, now, but he supposed he deserved it. He set the tray of food and water, courtesy of Mrs. Patmore, down on the floor beside the wardrobe.

He paused, sniffing the air with a grimace. "Bugger. _What_ is that smell?"

The cat shrank back into the pillow as if he'd threatened to whack it with a stick. Thomas pursed his lips at it, then glanced around the room for the source of the stench. He didn't see anything. Sighing, he looked under the bed, then the wardrobe and bureau, but found nothing.

Finally he let the smell guide him to the bin in the corner. The cat had been sick, all right—but had known to vomit into the bin?

Thomas stared at the cat in astonishment. "Escape from the circus, have you?" he asked it, incredulous. The cat seemed fascinated by the coverlet and would not look at him.

Shaking his head, Thomas lifted the blanket off the cat and gestured towards the tray. "There you are."

Mrs. Patmore had been only too pleased to serve their new friend, and had given it a spare bit of smoked salmon from the Crawley's own table, plus a bowl of water and a small dish of cream. The bloody thing was eating better than he was and had only been at Downton for a day. Still, he hoped the sustenance would perk the cat up a bit—it seemed to have a sickly attitude despite its gleaming golden coat.

The cat sniffed the tray delicately and looked back up at him as if to say thank you. Thomas had never seen a cat so expressive before, and he found himself wanting to stroke it again. But there was his livery to think of, of course.

"Go on, then," Thomas told it.

The cat did as it was bid. It lapped at the water more messily than any cat Thomas had seen, as if it didn't know what it was doing—its whole face was dripping by the time it was done—and then it began to eat the salmon with a bit more care. Thomas watched the cat eat while he had a quick smoke at the window, trying not to worry over Jimmy any more than he had been.

He failed, of course.

_This here is a taste of what it will be like_, a voice inside Thomas informed him. _You've always known he'd leave eventually—he's too lively for a life in service, too talented and beautiful to waste himself at Downton forever…now you know how you'll miss him, and worry about him for the rest of your days._

Thomas had never been much of a drinker before but he badly wanted one now.

The cat chose that moment to finish with the tray and pad over to him, looking up at him beseechingly with its dark blue eyes. Its expression—for this cat _had _expressions and no mistake—was now less sad, and more… hm. Thomas couldn't tell exactly, only that it seemed to be asking him for something.

"Stop that, would you," Thomas sighed. He was self aware enough to know he'd get attached to the cat if he spent too much time around it, and he didn't want that at all. He knew the cat likely wouldn't stay.

But the cat nudged its head against his leg, very pointedly, and went over to the door where it began to pace impatiently. When Thomas made no move to open it, the cat put both front paws on the wood and pushed, looking at him with narrowed eyes as it did it. It was a little uncanny.

Then Thomas realized it probably just needed the toilet.

But he couldn't just open the door, the cat might take off down the hall and end up causing trouble. But he couldn't pick it up either, and ruin another uniform with its claws and fur. Thomas thought about it for a moment and found a solution. He took one of his towels off the clotheshorse by the fire and wrapped the cat up in it like a small babe. Surprisingly the cat did not protest or struggle to escape; instead, it only gave him a sour look and put its ears back in displeasure.

He carried the cat downstairs for the second time that day, but this time the gossip machine downstairs had done its job. People no longer looked shocked but instead seemed collectively amused and interested. It was more than a little insulting—why should it be a such a great joke that he was caring for the cat? He wasn't some sort of devil who was cruel to animals— although he supposed the cat itself _did _look funny, wrapped up in a cloth as it was with its head peeking out. Perhaps he and the cat made a droll picture after all… O'Brien would have a thing or two to say about it, if she were still here.

Anna saw them at the bottom of the stairs as she was going up. "Oh, I see you've made a new friend," she said, smiling. "Hope Jimmy won't be jealous when he returns, he's had you quite to himself for ages now."

The casual mention of Jimmy stung Thomas, though he knew Anna were only trying to be funny. "Don't be silly Mrs. Bates, there's more than enough of me for the two of them."

As he walked away he heard her laugh. The cat wriggled a bit in his arms.

Sighing, Thomas took the cat into the courtyard so it could do its business, and he could finish his half-gone cigarette. He put the cat down, wondering if it would run away home and solve all their problems, but it didn't. Instead it shuffled over to the furthest corner of the yard and hid behind a bush. A minute or two later it reemerged, and Thomas could swear it's small cat-face looked embarrassed.

Thomas raised his eyebrows at him. "Funny one, aren't you?"

Then he scooped the cat up in the cloth and took him back inside.

* * *

The verdict on the cat (courtesy of Mrs. Patmore and Mr. Carson) was that he was to be Thomas's charge but that he would sleep in the kitchen at night, to better facilitate the hunting of mice. If anyone from the village claimed the cat in the meantime, then of course he would be returned to them, but for now everyone downstairs seemed keen on keeping the feline at Downton. Whether this was due to the mouse infestation or because everyone secretly wanted a _pet_, Thomas wasn't sure. He _did_ have serious doubts about the cat's abilities as a mouse hunter, though. Privately he thought the cat looked much too clean and fluffy to seem very fierce, and besides, it had the most nervous disposition he'd ever seen in a cat before. It had probably spent its entire life lying in some lady's lap, and was now utterly terrified of anything unfamiliar. Of course that didn't explain why it had attached itself only to _him_, but then, cats were mysterious creatures, even ones that looked a bit silly.

Thomas protested weakly at his role as primary guardian, but it was mostly for show. He was already growing fond of the cat despite himself, and was secretly gratified when the cat hissed and cringed away from anyone who wasn't him. He knew it said something pathetic about his life that a cat's opinion should matter to him, but there it was.

And Thomas was doubly glad of the cat's presence for a far more important reason—it provided a _distraction_. What with the business of finding a box and filling it with earth for its toilet, procuring a bed for it to sleep in, and other such miscellaneous chores in addition to his everyday work, it helped keep Thomas's thoughts from dwelling too deeply on the ticking clock, and Jimmy's continued absence.

As soon as his official duties were done that evening, however, he felt his anxiety rise to a peak and spill over.

"Something must be wrong, Mr. Carson," Thomas said. "Jimmy wouldn't disappear like this, not for nothing."

For once Carson didn't disagree. Instead he gave Thomas a heavy look and said, "I believe you're right. Let's telephone all the pubs, the theaters, and any other place you think he may have gone. Then I suppose… the police and hospital."

Thomas swallowed, and nodded.

So they phoned. They called half of Yorkshire, it seemed, but no one could give them any information about Jimmy.

"Perhaps I should go into town myself," Thomas said at last. "I may be able to find him. Just give me two hours, Mr. Carson. Please."

The old butler pursed his lips, and agreed. "But I shall have to inform his lordship in the meantime."

* * *

Thomas left Jimmy with Daisy and Mrs. Patmore.

"I'm going into the village to look for Jimmy," he said. "Watch the cat, would you?"

Jimmy ignored the two women's reaching hands and crawled under the table instead, his stomach sick again. He _hated_ this.

"But Jimmy didn't go to the village, he went to Ripon to see a picture," Daisy said. She looked worried. "He asked me to go but I thought he was up to his old tricks, so I said no…"

Jimmy could see some emotion cross Thomas's face, briefly, before he smoothed it down. "I'm sure it's something silly, is all," he said tightly. "A mistake or little accident of some sort. I'll be back tonight. And watch over our new friend and make sure he doesn't cause any trouble."

"Oh, he'll be fine," Mrs. Patmore said. Jimmy wasn't sure if she were talking about him, or… well, _him_.

Thomas nodded and left without another word, not sparing Jimmy another glance.

After a short silence Mrs. Patmore bent to look at Jimmy under the table. "Now then, Puss, what shall we call you? If I have anything to say about it you're staying right here. This place needs a cat—"

Jimmy tuned her out. Instead he resignedly pretended to sniff out the mice, stalking the edges of the room and going into the pantry as if a scent had led him there. In truth he wasn't sure what he was smelling—there were thousands of scents layered on top of each other—but Mrs. Patmore was pleased with the show in any case. If he wanted to stay here while he was like _this_, he needed everyone to think he was necessary to them. The last thing he wanted was to be given away to strangers, and separated from his only home and only friend. He hated that Thomas was out looking for him. _Hated_ it.

When he exhausted his pretend-stalking, he tentatively approached the table again.

By now Daisy and Mrs. Patmore were having tea and toast, chatting about visiting Mr. Mason later that week when the Crawleys were away in London. Jimmy considered trying to be affectionate with the two cooks—they'd likely stroke his back as Thomas had done—but he found the thought humiliating and vaguely disturbing, so he didn't draw any closer. Instead he examined a spot of jam Daisy had let fall onto the table near her elbow.

Could he…? He badly wanted something to eat again, something sweet. Sweet foods had always comforted him—not that all the pastries and tarts in the world would do him much good now.

But still… maybe no one would notice?

Bunching his muscles, Jimmy silently leapt onto the chair beside Daisy. When she didn't glance at him, he licked at the jam on the table, expecting the familiar sweetness to burst across his tongue—but it didn't. It didn't taste right at all, there was no sweetness, only a bit of tart and berry. It was not good at all.

"My my, look who likes the raspberry jam!" Mrs. Patmore said, grinning. "Maybe that's what we should call him."

"What? Jam?" Daisy wrinkled her nose, and rightly so. Jimmy did not want a bloody stupid cat name.

Mrs. Patmore snorted. "No, how about… Mr. Jam. Or Jammy… Jam-Jam?"

"Jaime? James?" suggested Daisy thoughtlessly, then both women's faces fell in dismay.

"I hope he's alright," Mrs. Patmore said with a sigh. "He may be a silly sort but I am fond of him. I just can't imagine where he's been all day."

Jimmy scowled inwardly. He was not _silly_… thought it was gratifying to know Mrs. Patmore cared for him. He hadn't really thought anyone besides Thomas did.

"What do you think happened?" Daisy asked. "It's like he's vanished, just like Lady Edith's beau."

Jimmy wondered if Michael Gregson had also been transformed into a cat. He rather doubted it, but then, what did he know? The world had ceased to make sense.

"I don't know," Mrs. Patmore said. "Jimmy's a bit of trouble, right— maybe he's just gone and done himself a mischief and Thomas will find him and sort it out."

Daisy agreed, though her face was grim. Absently she tried to pet Jimmy but he dodged her hand and leaped over to the rocking chair in the corner, the one Mr. Barrow preferred. He curled up in it and tried to prepare for whatever came next.

* * *

Jimmy watched as the other servants trickled into the hall as the sky darkened, most of them going about their business as if nothing were amiss. Many cooed over him and tried to pet him, but he dodged their humiliating overtures until they gave up, and he could return to the rocking chair to wait.

The worst thing about it, Jimmy thought—apart from being a cat, of course—was listening to everyone discuss him as if he weren't there.

Some were genuinely worried and their concern touched him: Daisy, Mrs. Patmore, Anna, and even Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Molesley expressed some concern for his wellbeing. Others, however, thought he'd run away with a girl or some other stupid thing. Some of the maids and hall boys were having a grand time of it, snickering and thinking up increasingly silly scenarios to explain his absence. Eventually Mr. Carson caught wind of it.

"I will hear no more gossip out of any of you," he said darkly. "James is still your superior."

Jimmy was immensely grateful for the reprimand— he'd been about a heartbeat away from clawing their smug little faces off. It was horrible not to be able to defend oneself from ridicule… but then it occurred to Jimmy that if _Carson_ were defending him, then the man must actually be worried about him, too.

_At least if I ever get back to myself_, Jimmy thought dully. _I'll know a lot of things I didn't before._

* * *

Jimmy heard Thomas slogging through the rain long before the others did. When he finally reached the door and came inside, dripping, Jimmy could see immediately that he was distraught beneath the mask of calm he projected.

"Any sign of him?" Mrs. Hughes asked.

"No," Thomas said. His voice was brittle and Jimmy wondered if the others could hear it.

"But you must have some clue, or—"

"_No_," Thomas said shortly. "No one remembers seeing him, not at any of the usual places in Ripon or the village."

Mrs. Hughes looked to Mr. Carson.

"This may be a matter for the police," he said reluctantly. "But first—perhaps we should search his room, see if he's packed his things. It's possible he's left of his own free will."

Even with his limited vision, Jimmy could see Thomas blanch. "I—yes, of course."

_Don't be stupid!_ Jimmy wanted to shout at him. He couldn't believe Thomas would think he'd leave without a word—he wasn't bloody Miss O'Brien! He'd never go without saying goodbye. He'd never…

The silence in the room was glacial. Thomas and Mr. Carson left together, their footsteps on the stairs sounding obscenely loud in the quiet. Jimmy felt he would be sick again, but with an effort he steadied himself enough to slip out the door after the two men with no one the wiser.

He followed Thomas and Mr. Carson from a distance, silent on his soft new feet. He only drew near when they were already in his room.

He watched numbly as Mr. Carson opened his wardrobe while Thomas searched his nightstand.

"All his clothes are still here…" Carson observed.

After only a moment of digging Thomas made a rough sound in his throat, like a sob quickly disguised as a cough.

"I've found his ticket to the pictures last night," he said unsteadily. "He likes to collect them. So he did go to Ripon after all, and then he came back here—"

"Then where is he _now?_"

"I—I don't know."

After a moment, Thomas tilted his head at Jimmy's bed. Jimmy knew what he was seeing—the bizarre way the blankets were mussed, and the empty pajama sleeve tossed across the pillow…

Mr. Carson noticed it too, and pulled back Jimmy's wrinkled bedclothes with a jerk. Jimmy's pajamas were there, laid out beneath the sheets, empty and posed like a sleeping man.

"It's all too _strange_," Thomas murmured. He sounded like a small boy, suddenly. "We have to inform the police. We—we should have done this morning, now we've wasted all this time and it's _dark_—"

"Now, calm down, Thomas," Carson said heavily. "Lord Grantham wishes to handle such a call himself, let's go now and tell him what we've found…"

Thomas nodded, looking more pinched and helpless than Jimmy had ever seen him. The sight of him like that split a crack through Jimmy's chest, like the crust of the earth pulling apart, and again he wanted to scream. He could feel it all building up inside him, trapped and too big for his tiny body to contain.

_I'm here, I'm right HERE you stupid arse! You don't need to look like that, I'm not dead and I didn't run off—!_

Overcome with the frustration of it, Jimmy jumped onto Thomas's lap and pressed his head against his belly.

_It's me who's gone, not him, _Jimmy told himself. _So why do I feel I miss him so badly?_ It didn't make any sense. Perhaps he was going mad already.

To his surprise, Thomas heaved in a shaky breath and caught Jimmy up in his arms, pressing him tight to his chest as if he needed the comfort. Jimmy buried his face in his jacket, drawing the Thomas-scent into his lungs.

* * *

What followed was some of the longest hours of Jimmy's life.

Lord Grantham phoned the police and ordered them to Downton right away. Mr. Carson, Thomas, and Jimmy waited for them in the library with Lord Grantham, but only Mr. Carson and Lord Grantham said a word—Thomas remained silent, his jaw tight, and Jimmy lay still in his arms, silently wishing again that it were all a bad dream.

When the two inspectors arrived, there was much talking and pomp from Lord Grantham and the police asked question after question, each more invasive and insulting than the last. Thomas even confessed to finding Jimmy—that is, a _cat_—in Jimmy's empty room that morning.

Eventually the detectives made their way into the men's quarters to investigate, and they searched Jimmy's room and took statements from most of the household staff—even the maids and hall boys.

By midnight they were finished, promising to get in touch if any evidence presented itself. It was obvious they thought Jimmy was a runaway servant—they'd asked a lot of questions about theft, and if anything had been found missing lately.

Bizarrely Jimmy himself felt let down by the police, but not about the accusations of theft. Some illogical part of him had hoped they'd find him somehow, the _real_ him, and that he'd magically reappear in his proper form with no memory that he'd ever been a cat.

_So I have gone mad_, _then,_ Jimmy thought numbly.

Thomas held Jimmy throughout the whole ordeal, and Jimmy listened to his heartbeat and his breathing, and felt the fear in every line of his body. Thomas was afraid Jimmy had been carried off and murdered, or that he'd had a shell-shock episode and had wandered off onto the moors or into the forest, and were lost. He told his theories to the police and then got terribly angry when they didn't respond in the way he wished. Mr. Carson had to tell him to leave until he calmed himself.

"Those _goddamned_—those bloody _foul_—!" Thomas hissed to Jimmy, tightening his grip on Jimmy's fur until it hurt. "They don't care about finding him, they _don't_—Lord Grantham looked for his sodding _dog _better than he's looking for Jimmy! I'll kill them if they don't do something, I _will_."

Jimmy felt a drop of warm water fall on his back and didn't dare look up at Thomas. If he saw him weep he might not be able to survive it, not now when it was like watching his own death happen in front of his eyes. He couldn't feel like _this _and see that, too.

Finally the police left, and Mr. Carson ordered Thomas to bed. He never said a word about the cat in Thomas's arms, but of his own accord Thomas took Jimmy back to the servant's hall and placed him in his makeshift cat-bed: an old hat box with a blanket stuffed in. Jimmy did not want to be left alone anymore than he had that morning, but when he looked up and took in Thomas's drawn countenance—the haunted eyes over white cheeks— he knew he couldn't bring himself to trouble his friend with any further protests.

_Please, _please _let me wake up as myself again,_ Jimmy prayed.

But Jimmy couldn't sleep despite his exhaustion. There were sounds in the house, little creaks and scratchings and whispers, tiny noises magnified in the silence. Jimmy could see in the dark, now, but it didn't make it any less frightening. This was the room that had produced the enchanted tea—how was he supposed to sleep _here?_

When he heard thunder rumble in the distance, he took it as permission to be a coward. He darted out of the box and raced up the stairs to Thomas's door, his heart pounding as if he were being chased. He meant only to curl up in front of the door and not bother Thomas, but instantly he knew he could not do that because—because Thomas was _weeping. _Behind the door Jimmy could hear Thomas muffling his tears into his pillow.

So Jimmy clawed at the door, batting at it with his paws, until Thomas opened it and let him in.

Jimmy's new vision allowed him to see the tears streaking those angled features, see the depth of pain in the pale eyes and the vulnerable wreck of his mouth. It was possible, wasn't it, that Jimmy had been wrong all along..? It was possible a man could truly _love_ another man, in the way poets talked about, because… what was _this,_ if not love?

Jimmy followed Thomas into the bed, heartsick. He desperately wanted to tell him he was sorry, _so sorry_, and that he didn't think him a deviant anymore. He wanted to apologize for every cruel thing he'd ever said or done to him, to tell him he was his dearest friend in all the world, and that he would never leave him, not for anything. He wanted to weep _with _Thomas and tell him he was _right here, right here, don't cry anymore._

Nothing had ever pained him so profoundly, and the only way he could bear it was to press as close to Thomas as he could, to try to sink down into him through pressure alone. The feeling of _missing _him came back, too, so strongly and sharply Jimmy felt his small cat's body shake with the misery of it.

Thomas reached up and held Jimmy painfully tight in return, choking something out about a _stupid bloody cat_. Jimmy pretended Thomas's tears were his own, and found some small relief in them at last.

And finally, he slept.

* * *

The next morning, Jimmy woke as a cat, tucked under Thomas's chin.

Thomas came awake unwillingly to the sound of his alarm, and Jimmy watched him remember the day before and clench his fists in his hair. Then he drew in a shuddery breath and got up, and Jimmy burrowed under the blankets as Thomas dressed and washed his face. When Thomas left, Jimmy heard him open _his_ door across the hall, and then close it again a silent moment later.

_Still hoping I'm there_, Jimmy thought. _That makes two of us._

As Thomas's footsteps receded down the stairs, Jimmy saw it: a familiar steaming teacup had appeared on the nightstand, painted with blue and yellow flowers. Jimmy's insides shrank in horror— he couldn't move.

Minutes ticked by, and when nothing else happened he dared to move closer— had to, to read the tiny script on the paper sticking out from under the cup. It read:

_Well done,_

_You have learned lesson one,_

_And one gift you shall receive:_

_Drink from this cup and you shall have_

_One single night's reprieve._


	3. Chapter 3

Jimmy reread the terrible poetry over and over, his tiny heart drumming fit to burst out of his chest.

_One single night's reprieve._

Did that mean what he thought it meant? Would he be human again— but only for anight?

_Well done, you have learned lesson one._

What _lesson?_

It was true he'd learned a lot yesterday—so much of his perceptions had shifted, about the world, about the people he knew in it—but which lesson was the _right_ one? If he knew that, he might be able to solve this puzzle and surely, _surely_ by the end of it he'd return to himself. Perhaps this was all some sort of test, one he would pass if he just held on.

But the message said lesson _ONE_—how many bloody lessons were there? Would he be _learning lessons_ for the rest of his pitiful life?

White-hot fury momentarily blinded him. _How dare_ this—this _entity_ treat him like a naughty schoolboy? How dare it torture him this way? More importantly, how dare it torture _Thomas_ this way—Thomas, who was so dear and had done nothing wrong?

Jimmy's claws flexed outward and his back arched, all his fur standing on end as he recalled Thomas's suffering from the night before, how bitterly he had wept. Jimmy could barely restrain himself from clawing the note to pieces, or going mad and tearing the whole room apart. He wanted destruction, violence, _blood_, something to release all he was feeling. Trapped in this body every single emotion was trapped, too, and it _hurt._

But he forced himself to take deliberately deep, slow breaths, to let the lovely scent in the room fill him up and calm him down. As a human he hadn't been the best at controlling his temper, or his fear, but now … well, it were just yet another thing he was _learning._

_At least this means there's_hope _for you yet_, Jimmy told himself shakily. _More silence would have been worse._

By slow increments his body relaxed, his claws retracting and his fur settling smoothly over his back. He'd drink that enchanted tea and then… then he'd make some sort of plan. He had to use his one night of freedom wisely, and not to go screaming down the halls like a lunatic raving about magic spells. The Crawleys would send him to the madhouse and no mistake.

But the immediate question was—did he drink the tea now or did he wait until nightfall?

He thought about it for all of three seconds and decided he simply couldn't wait. He just couldn't stand being stuck helpless like this any longer if he could do something about it.

Jimmy leaped onto the nightstand and bent over the teacup. The tea looked identical to the tea two nights before, with the pretty amber-brown color and slice of lemon at the bottom; the steam smelled just as suspiciously appealing as it wafted over his face and dampened his whiskers. The reflection in the dark liquid was the only thing that had changed.

_Please work_, Jimmy prayed. _Please don't let this be some sort of cruel trick..._

Cautiously he lapped at the hot tea. It didn't taste foul this time—instead it tasted more like proper tea, with a hint of lemon and some unknown spice that reminded him vaguely of cinnamon. The night he'd been transformed he'd only taken one small swallow, but just to be safe he drank the entire cup dry.

When he was finished he sat back, waiting with bated breath. Would the transformation hurt?

Any minute now he'd be back to himself…

Surely any minute now.

Nothing happened.

Jimmy tried not to panic. _It said_ _night,_ he reminded himself firmly. _It will probably only work when the sun sets or the moon rises…_

He was staring down at the empty cup, wondering anxiously if he should eat the soggy lemon, when before his very eyes the cup, note, and saucer blinked out of existence—_disappeared_, right in front of him. Jimmy yowled in fright and hid under Thomas's blanket.

He _hated_ magic.

* * *

Thomas went downstairs that morning feeling old and exhausted. He knew his eyes were bloodshot from last night's tears but found he cared little if anyone noticed and guessed the reason. His insides felt as if they'd been carved out with a spoon and torn to shreds—gossip and ridicule behind his back were nothing next to that.

Nothing like that _mattered_ anymore, not when Jimmy was missing, possibly hurt, or even—

Thomas shuddered, pausing on the stairs to pull in a sharp breath against the thought. _No_. He refused to even _think_ it. Jimmy would be alright—he had to be. There could still be some strange, but ultimately harmless, explanation, and he had only to be patient and Jimmy would return. He steadied himself before entering the servant's hall, hoping he'd find Jimmy there.

He didn't.

Thomas sat down and stared blankly at his toast.

The mood over breakfast was somber and subdued, although not nearly so much as Thomas felt it should be. At least when Lady Sybil had died everyone had reacted properly—not that _Jimmy_was—

Thomas clenched his hands under the table, his left one aching at the pressure.

_It's because they _liked _Lady Sybil, and most of them don't give one toss about Jimmy_, Thomas thought with burning resentment. _No one realizes how—how wonderful he is but me. They just can't wait for Carson to turn his back so they can gossip about his disappearance. To them it's only intrigue, like a _Sherlock Holmes _mystery, and it doesn't pain them one bit._

Thomas focused on his anger and flicked nasty glances at any of his subordinates who dared to smile. Most of them caught his looks immediately and smoothed down their faces awkwardly, and he took some small vindictive pleasure in their discomfort. Anna gave him a sympathetic look edged with a reprimand, which he ignored.

After breakfast Mr. Carson drew Thomas aside.

"You'll be filling in for James until he returns, just as you did yesterday," Carson informed him.

Thomas already knew that and wondered why Carson were bringing it up again. He nodded anyway and said something to the affirmative, turning to go.

"Ah, there's one more thing…" the old butler looked strangely hesitant, as if he were trying to tread softly. "…Last night when we were looking for signs of James I completely forgot to consider his family in all of this."

_"My dad was killed in the war and my mother died of the flu. I haven't any brothers and sisters, so here we are. All on me ownsome."_

Thomas cleared his throat. "The inspector already made those sorts of inquiries. Jimmy has no family."

"Are you certain? Could there have been a close friend, some distant relation he might have gone to…?"

Thomas shook his head. "Not unless he lied to me. He told me long ago he were alone in the world."

Thomas didn't say,_we were each other's only friend._

Mr. Carson looked almost sympathetic. "I see."

* * *

Thomas returned to his room to care for the cat and bring it to the kitchen. He supposed it was _his_ cat, really, at least for now. The feline had comforted him during the police questioning and then had returned to him again when he'd been weeping. It had even stayed with him through the night, too, letting him cling to its soft fur in his fear and despair.

He should give it a name, he thought listlessly. It certainly deserved a name for all the loyalty and affection it had shown him.

If Jimmy were here they'd have great fun coming up with a name together—Jimmy would suggest the names of his favorite film stars and stage actors, no doubt, and Thomas would scoff at the idea and say they should name it after a cat-god or a Greek philosopher. Then of course Jimmy would take the piss out of _him_ for trying to name it something so lofty and pretentious. _"Think you're so clever, Mr. Barrow."_ Jimmy had said it more than once, rolling his eyes and giving Thomas one of his sideways smiles.

Thomas felt a burn in the back of his throat and tried to swallow past it.

When he opened the door he found the cat hiding under his blanket again, its small pink nose buried in his pillow. Thomas gave it a mumbled greeting and set its food tray down; shredded chicken, this time.

After a moment the cat came down from the bed and Thomas assumed it would go straight for the food. Instead it went to him, first, butting its golden head against his hand. Thomas obliged and stroked the cat for some small minutes, and its softness and warmth soothed the ice in his heart just a little. Vaguely he wondered why the cat never purred. It was strange. Eventually the cat turned its head and licked his hand with its rough tongue, like a little cat-kiss. Then it turned its attention to the food he'd brought, and it ate and drank while he had half a cigarette. Already it felt like a routine in the making. Thomas wasn't sure how he felt about that.

When the cat was finished eating Thomas wrapped it in the towel again and took it out into the courtyard, wondering with considerably more dread than the day before if it would run off. But it didn't; as before, it hid behind the bush and returned to him soon afterward, ears pricked and wanting to be allowed back inside. Thomas took it to the kitchens and let it loose for the day, making sure it had it had everything it needed before he left it with the kitchen staff.

As he walked away he thought he heard Mrs. Patmore call the cat "Jammies."

* * *

As soon as his work – and Jimmy's—was done for the day, Thomas telephoned the inspectors.

Of course they knew nothing they hadn't known the night before. Thomas shouted at them to bloody do their jobs, and that he knew something terrible had happened to Jimmy and that he hadn't run away of his own accord. The man on the telephone could only give him weak platitudes in return. "_Calm down sir, we are doing all we can—missing persons are—"_but Thomas didn't want to hear it. Eventually he hung up, defeated. He put his face in his hands and breathed deeply, trying not to imagine Jimmy suffering or—or dead in some forgotten place.

When he could finally breathe evenly again he phoned hospital and the prison hoping for news, with no luck. There had been no Jimmy Kent arrested or admitted to the hospital since yesterday, nor any unknown blond man taken in by either party.

Thomas knew Carson had phoned the mortuary, too, tactfully when Thomas had not been in the room—but Thomas found he could not bear to try that place for himself.

Jimmy wasn't dead, anyway. He _wasn't_. Thomas was sure he'd know somehow if he were, though his certainty lessened by the hour.

Not knowing what else to do but unable to bear sitting idle, Thomas decided to continue his own search and investigation, such as it were. He put on his coat and hat and tried to leave with no one noticing.

Unfortunately Mr. Bates saw him from the corridor. The hateful man didn't say a word, he just looked at Thomas knowingly, as if he could read every thought in his head and understood, perhaps even sympathized with him on some level. Self righteous git. Thomas tightened his jaw in disgust but found he couldn't even manage a proper sneer in return.

He left swiftly, shutting the door with as much dignity as possible.

He trudged into the village, not caring one wit for the mud that splashed on his trouser legs or the way it coated his shoes. He looked everywhere for signs of Jimmy, asked random passers-by if they'd seen him, or seen anything unusual. No one had, and all he got were strange looks for his efforts.

He traveled on into Ripon without consciously deciding to do so, his feet leading him to the bridge where he'd taken the beating for Jimmy so long ago, and so had earned his friendship. He didn't know why he thought Jimmy might be there, but when he stood under the heavy stone and it began to drizzle, and Jimmy was _not_ there, Thomas again felt the burn of tears in his eyes.

He'd barely begun to let them fall when he felt something press against his leg, and he started violently.

It was the cat—his cat. It must have been following him all evening.

"Damn!" Thomas hissed. "Why do you always come when I'm— when I—?"

The cat didn't answer, it only blinked at him solemnly. Craving the comfort and not caring for the state of his wool coat, Thomas scooped up the damp feline and cradled it to him.

For a long time he held the cat and stared at the gray stone over his head, waiting for the rain to pass. Without knowing why he said, "I've lost my… me friend. Me dearest friend."

The cat in his arms shifted, and lifted itself until it could nestle its little face under his chin. Thomas barely felt it. Instead he curled his fingers into the fur, his body trembling faintly with the tears he refused to let fall again.

When the rain passed and he had regained some control, Thomas pulled the cat off. He was strangely embarrassed by the animal's presence, though he could not say why. _As if knows what it just bloody heard,_ Thomas thought. Still, he deposited the cat on the grass without looking at it and headed for the nearest shop that sold what he needed.

Silently, the cat followed.

* * *

Thomas returned to Downton just as the clouds opened and the sun began to cast long shadows across the grounds. His coat pockets were stuffed with a bottle of wine and a bottle of absinthe, respectively. He fully intended to drink until he passed out blind, something he hadn't done since his days as a footman.

Mrs. Hughes saw him as he came in, barely glancing at his feline companion. Her face was drawn in lines of concern and sympathy; she had always been so kind to him, he thought. He almost wanted to go to her as a little boy does to his mother, crying into her apron when the world is cruel. Almost.

"Oh, Mr. Barrow… you've missed dinner and you're white as a sheet. Will you be alright?"

Thomas mumbled something about being just fine and brushed past her reaching hand.

He went straight to his room and undressed to his shirtsleeves, and without ceremony sat on the floor and opened the bottle of wine. He closed his eyes and took a long, sweet swallow, willing it to numb the bleeding wound in his heart.

* * *

Jimmy crouched in the window and watched Thomas drink a third of the wine and then start on the absinthe. He kept one eye on the sun as it sank lower in the sky, feeling anticipation so keen it was painful. The rest of his thoughts and feelings he kept closed up tightly. One thing at a time, he told himself. He had to be ready, and clear-headed.

Jimmy had determined on the way back to Downton that it might be best if Thomas were at least half-drunk when his transformation occurred; if he were more than a bit squiffy he'd be less frightened and might even take the news of the magic in stride. But Jimmy also knew Thomas might well be in danger of drinking _too_much. It was obviously what he intended.

Jimmy would have been more concerned—might have tried to stop him sooner—if Thomas hadn't started _talking_. The more he drank, the more stories and secrets he began to spill. Jimmy listened without reacting, waiting, his mind forcefully blank as it absorbed his words.

"If we're to be friends, kitty…" Thomas explained with a loose, terrible smile. "You should know all 'bout me life. No secrets."

And so between drinks Thomas told Jimmy how he got his honorable war wound. He talked about how he'd once had an affair with a duke. He talked about Miss O'Brien and Lady Sybil and a soldier named Edward Courtenay, about his first job as a hallboy, about his parents and the clock shop, and the first time he had it off with another man.

Halfway through his tales Thomas's speech lost its articulation and began to slur and stumble. His eyes grew glassy, sleepy, his gestures sloppy.

"And _Jimmy_…" Thomas moaned suddenly. "It were love at first sight, it was—for me. Well, not love, more like… like a preminshhhin_—_like seeing the future. I knew I would love him before I did… and that I were done for. It gave me a little fright, it did. Must've known somehow it weren't good…"

Jimmy 's insides burned, his heart pounded like a drum. _Ohhhh, Thomas. Please don't say anymore._

"He didn't love me, though," Thomas confessed. "But I'm used to that… no one ever does. He did want to be me friend, after… and that were more than I'd hoped for. Our friendship were precious sweet to me. It were the _best_ thing I— but sometimes I _hated_it too, because it hurt to be near him and not—but _now_ look what's _happened!_He's _gone_. Gone! He were the best friend I've ever had in me whole sorry life. He made me _laugh._ He made me happy… But _before_I didn't know… I thought how I couldn't go on like this much longer, bein' nothing more than his friend and loving him so. Ha. Hahaha! I were so _stupid_. Didn't even know I were happy 'till I weren't anymore."

Jimmy couldn't stand this—there was a rushing and roaring in his ears, as if he were standing on the lip of a waterfall and if he set a foot wrong he would tumble down into some enormous, churning chasm. He trembled, wishing he could block Thomas's words from his ears and erase them from his memory.

Thomas rolled his head back against the side of the bed, his pained expression blurred by drink. "Where is Jimmy…?" he asked the air softly, plaintively. "Why can't I have him back?"

He closed his eyes, his whole body going loose, and Jimmy came back to reality with an unpleasant jolt. If Thomas fell asleep or passed out—that would ruin everything. Drunk was one thing, but unconscious—!

Panicking, Jimmy sprang down from the window and knocked the absinthe out of Thomas's hand with a quick swipe of his left paw. The bottle went spinning across the floor, spilling all over the floorboards and filling the room with the poisonous scent of it.

"What'd ya do that for?!" Thomas cried in shocked dismay, crawling across the floor after the bottle. He managed to grab it eventually and he drank the inch still left, glaring blearily at Jimmy.

"You're… you're not a normal cat…" he slurred, pointing an accusing finger at Jimmy.

Jimmy nodded like he would as a human, and it made Thomas start in confusion.

"Ssc-circus…" he mumbled. "You're from the sodding _circus_. A circus kitty. I knew it. Anyway, still got the—the dine. The wine. So… _ha_."

He reached for the bottle but Jimmy beat him to it, leaping onto the bureau and knocking it to the floor with his tail. The glass broke instantly, and Thomas moaned, tears filling his glassy eyes.

"Noooo, why did you…_why _did you...?"

And he began to weep, his pale fingers dangerously close to sliding into the shards of glass. Jimmy looked out the window, and saw that the sun had set at last.

Thomas was _so_ sleepy. But he was too sad to sleep. He wasn't drunk enough _not_to feel sad and so he couldn't sleep. His cat friend had betrayed him, it had taken his drink away and left him stranded like this—drunk but not drunk enough. He couldn't stop crying. He was crying because Jimmy was gone, and he might be hurt or dead, and his drink was all spilled and ruined with broken glass, and he was pathetic and so lonely he wanted to die.

A voice told him to be careful, that he would hurt himself on the glass. Strange. It sounded just like Jimmy's voice.

Then there were warm, strong hands lifting Thomas up, and he blinked through his tears and saw that it _was_Jimmy. Jimmy was here with him, and he looked very worried and he was _so_beautiful and he was… nude.

"Oh," Thomas said, forgetting to cry at once. He stared down at Jimmy's body and it was perfect. _Must have passed out then, and the drink has given me sweet dreams._

"Dreaming…" he sighed wistfully, touching Jimmy's hair. It were just as soft as he'd always imagined it would be.

Jimmy took his hand and squeezed it. Funny, but Jimmy and the cat had matching eyes. That was… so funny. Thomas smiled a little.

"You're _not_dreaming," Jimmy said firmly. "Bloody hell Thomas, why did you have to drink so much?"

"You're alive, then? You're… real?"

Jimmy helped him over to the bed, away from the spilled glass, and pushed him onto it. "_Yes_, I'm real. And this is _not_a sodding dream. God Almighty…"

Thomas shook his head, staring down between Jimmy's legs. "I don't… I don't _believe_ you. You're a liar."

Jimmy groaned in frustration, his body vibrating with agitation. "_Thomas_. Mr. Barrow. You have to—to listen to me, dammit. Listen _well."_

Jimmy's face was all scrunched up. Thomas smiled up at him, adoring him so very much. He ran his hands down over Jimmy's chest and stomach and around to his hips, his fingers clumsy over the smooth, warm skin. He wanted to make Jimmy feel good… Jimmy sucked in a startled breath and caught Thomas's hands in his to stop their wandering.

Thomas wilted. Even in dreams Jimmy didn't want him?

"_Mr. Barrow_. Listen. Nod so I know you can hear me, bloody _Christ_…"

Thomas nodded obediently.

"Something's _happened_to me," Jimmy said urgently. "Something… supernatural. I've been—I've been changed into a cat. By… well, I suppose it's a magic potion."

Thomas blinked at him. Was that meant to be a joke?

Jimmy swore and released his hands. A moment later he had Thomas's water glass in hand—the one he kept by his bed at night. Without a word Jimmy splashed half of it over Thomas's head, making him hiss in shock as the icy water slid down his back under the collar of his shirt.

That… that had felt very real.

Thomas stared up at Jimmy anew, heart pounding in rising hope. Jimmy's mouth was tight.

"Drink the rest of it, then. Please."

Thomas took the water and drank it, his eyes never leaving Jimmy's over the rim of the glass.

"Now, listen," Jimmy repeated. "Two nights ago I came back from the theater and found a cup of tea in the kitchen. No one had drank from it and no one was about so I took me a little sip. Then I saw this note under the saucer, something about gaining treasure if I drank it, but I thought it were a stupid joke, so I ignored it and went to bed. When I woke up the next morning… I _was_ a cat. I was _in_ a cat's body."

Thomas was so confused. He looked around the room, wondering where _his_ cat had gone. He didn't see him anywhere.

"Then you found me," Jimmy said. "_I_am your… your circus kitty or whatever it is you call me. I've been with you all this time."

Thomas struggled to focus on Jimmy's lovely face. The room kept tilting and spinning, making him feel sick.

"I'm not _dead_," Jimmy insisted, grabbing Thomas by the shoulders and squeezing until it hurt. "I didn't run away and I wasn't abducted, I'm right here with you. Alright? Do you believe me?"

Thomas nodded, because it was what Jimmy wanted.

"You can't forget this when you wake up. You have to _believe_ it, Thomas. Tomorrow I'll be a cat again so you have to listen to me now."

Thomas nodded again, his head feeling like it would fall off and roll away. He was very tired.

"Today I found anther cup of enchanted tea," Jimmy told him. "It said I'd learned lesson _one_ and that I'd get a single night as a human as a reward. I think that means if I learn a few more lessons the curse or spell will break, and it'll all be over."

"Like a fairy tale…" Thomas mused.

"Yes. Exactly," Jimmy looked very pale, Thomas noticed. "So now I'm—I'm going to give you proof. For tomorrow."

Jimmy let go and knelt over the broken glass on the floor. He picked up a piece of glass—a long, sharp piece—and poised the tip of it over his right arm. He hesitated, looking grim, and then lifted it to his earlobe instead and nicked the side of it with the glass. Blood spilled down his neck in a thin red ribbon.

"No, Jimmy, don't hurt…" Thomas stood up, alarmed, wanting to stop him from doing what he'd just done.

But Jimmy looked at him, his dark blue eyes wide and desperate. "Your cat will have the same wound, tomorrow. On the right ear. It'll be your proof."

Thomas swayed where he stood, but Jimmy caught him before he fell. "Sit down, now, Thomas."

"But you're _bleeding_,"

"I'll be alright. Just a scratch, ain't it?"

Thomas let Jimmy push him down on the bed. He still wasn't sure if this were real or a dream, but he knew he wanted it to be real. It _felt_real.

"Jimmy…?"

But Jimmy had turned away, and was slipping on Thomas's dressing gown to cover himself. His pale cheeks now had two spots of red in them. When he was clothed (Thomas mourned the loss of his nudity immediately) Jimmy approached him more cautiously than before and asked a question.

"What?" Thomas hadn't heard him.

"I said, we've got to get you undressed. You're—you're covered in mud and alcohol."

Thomas looked down at himself. And so he was.

Jimmy knelt before him and took off his shoes, then clumsily helped him remove his trousers and unfasten his sock garters. It was unbearably erotic to Thomas, but even as he felt his skin flushed he knew it weren't as he wished it to be.

When Jimmy had done the best he could for him, Thomas let himself be tucked into bed. Jimmy would leave him now, surely…

But Jimmy didn't. Instead he told Thomas in a gruff voice to "budge up" and then somehow he was sliding on top of the covers next to Thomas, their shoulders touching. Thomas fought the urge to grab hold of Jimmy and pull him close—he desperately wanted to hold him and kiss his dear, sweet face…whether this were a dream or not. Here, Jimmy was most assuredly alive and not gone away.

"You're my very dearest friend," Jimmy said in a strange tone.

Thomas swallowed hard, his heart squeezing with affection. "Thank you…"

"And I'm sorry, _so_sorry for how cruel I've been to you," Jimmy went on. "Not just for after that night you… when you… but even since we've become friends, I know I've said terrible things to you about—well, about you and your sort. I didn't think how terrible they were until now."

Thomas blinked, remembering a few thoughtless comments Jimmy had made over the course of their friendship. They'd stung badly, and even with his head like cotton some part of him was eased by Jimmy's words. Valiantly he tried to stay awake. This was important, and he wanted to hear more. He didn't want to miss another moment with Jimmy.

"I just want you to know in case—" Jimmy went on tightly. "Just want you to know: I _don't_ think you're—you're twisted or a deviant anymore. I was _wrong_. _So_ wrong. You're—you're _wonderful_, and good, and you're the best friend I've ever had. I don't deserve a friend like you. And I know… I know now that you do love me. _Truly_ love me. I should've known after the fair but I—I was too frightened to see it then."

Thomas couldn't help himself—he pushed into Jimmy's space and tucked his head against Jimmy's shoulder. He hoped this was a suitably friendly embrace, one that Jimmy would not object to.

Jimmy didn't object; instead his arm came up around Thomas, and he held him tightly. "I—I care for you, too," he admitted. His voice sounded strangely brittle, almost as if he were frightened, or very upset. "I c-care for you, Thomas. Like a… like a brother. More than anyone else in the world. A best, dearest friend. A friend who will _never_leave you. When I'm back to myself we'll always stick together, you and I, always get jobs in the same house. I wanted to tell you so much last night when you were…I… _Thomas_…"

Was Jimmy the one crying, now? Thomas felt something wet against his temple, but his eyes were too heavy to open once they'd closed. He was slipping under a warm, heavy wave, but even as he went he registered a bittersweet sting of pain and happiness, one that was familiar and all Jimmy Kent.

* * *

**Notes with minor fic spoiler:**

Don't worry! This will NOT be one of those "but he didn't remember anything the next day," things, (a trope popular in manga and anime). The plot _will_ be moving forward in the next chapter. Also, this chapter originally included a small scene that was eerily similar to one in Flippy's recent awesome fic, "Squiffy," but I cut it out since hers was better haha (also I realized Jimmy might be too emotional in this situation to be that smart.. can you guys guess what I'm talking about?).


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